


The Hope of Spring

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Cute Kids, Ducks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kittens, mention of a stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Humphrey and Henry feed some ducks, tell stories and battle the wind.





	The Hope of Spring

**March 1426**

Humphrey does not think he is a bad man. At least, that is what he hopes. He stands still and closes his eyes, waiting to be brushed by the Marshal of the Household and made pure. He knows he is flawed – his brother John has always made sure that he knows _that –_ but he would like to believe that he _means_ well. He does not like to think of the mistakes he has made – he knows now he should not have married Jacqueline, but he loved her and she wanted him. He does not like to think of Jacqueline nor of the letters that come from her, pleading for him to win back her lands. Sometimes, he does not even like to think of Eleanor, her mouth hot against his own, her legs locked around his hips.

He flinches when the brush descends onto his shoulders and hears his marshal’s whispered apology, the brush strokes growing lighter until he barely feels them.

This morning, he knelt to hear mass and he was supposed to be thinking of Jesus’s sacrifice, God’s mercy and how he was a dreadful sinner. But all Humphrey could do was think of the child that was meant to be his and Jacqueline’s, the child that was born without breath.

He hadn’t seen the child, was not told whether it would have been a son or a daughter, only that it was dead. He had wanted to ask, but was not sure if it was right and proper, and when he found the courage to demand to be allowed to see the child, they told him it was too late, the body had been taken away. All he had wanted then was to see Harry and tell him, except Harry was dead too. He tried to comfort himself with the idea that his poor little dead baby was with Harry, Thomas and their parents, but it didn’t help.

He wants to crawl back into bed, where Eleanor will stroke his hair and dry his tears before doing her best to help him forget. But he has to leave. He must see his nephew. Humphrey is Lord Protector of England, it is right and proper that he go to see the king. There would be others who would not agree and say he is a bad influence on little Henry – most of them found in the Beaufort family – but Humphrey knows that Harry would not agree.

Harry _loved_ him. At Meaux, on the day they heard the first news of Henry’s birth, he and Harry talked through the night about something that wasn’t the war or the grim conditions. Harry seemed more like himself – younger, happier, _freer_ – and he seemed only to sober briefly when he clasped Humphrey’s shoulder and said, if they were still only the sons of a duke, he would place Henry into Humphrey’s care.

But they were not. Humphrey was too important to be Henry’s warden and Harry, though he tried to hide it, was already sick.

The marshal steps back, putting the brush down with a quiet click. Humphrey nods and the door is opened for him. Outside, the sky is clear and the world is in perfect colour and order. It is a day where you can see forever – which is something Harry used to say when they were children.

*

A slow chill moves up Humphrey’s legs and he wonders if he has not truly shaken off the illness that dogged him in Hainault. But no, it is just he is used to riding beneath the warm sun and in comparison, the hall of Leeds Castle is cold. He is not sick. He must not think of it. His old nurse used to say that if he even thought of an illness, he would sicken. He takes a breath and lets his head fall back to stare up at the wooden-beamed ceiling, the carved dark wood, and waits.

No one comes. Humphrey studies the tapestries decorating the audience chamber. They are made well, but there no bright threads picking out some adventurous story, but dark and dismal depictions of martyr’s deaths. These are too bleak for a young boy to look at each day. Humphrey grew up in rooms decorated with bright tapestries of King Arthur’s adventures and his favourite had been one depicting the Green Knight because every shade of green had been employed in its making. Harry said their mother had made it. Humphrey wonders what happened to it, if it could somehow be found and passed onto Henry.

‘You do not approve,’ a voice says behind him.

He turns and bows deeply, seeing the dowager queen approach with her ladies. He rises at Catherine’s command and kisses her hand. Her eyes study his face, a slight smile curving her thin lips.

‘Brother,’ she says, then moves her eyes to the tapestry he has been studying. ‘I do not approve either. But there are those who say the king does not have time for frivolities.’

Humphrey grimaces. ‘Tell me his bedchamber is more cheerful than this.’

‘Oh yes,’ Catherine says. ‘I can interfere _there_.’

Distantly, he hears the sound of marching men – the king’s guard. He straightens and turns towards the door. Catherine moves to stand at his side, her thin fingers plucking at the cuffs of her long, red sleeves. When the door opens, she curtsies and he goes down onto his knees as he has many times before. For his father, for his brother, and now for his nephew.

‘Uncle, uncle, uncle, _uncle._ ’

Humphrey lifts his head. Henry darts past his escort and pelts straight at Humphrey. But he stops, a little further than an arm’s length away, his head tilted to one side, his little face uncertain beneath his velvet hat, as if he does not quite recognise Humphrey – it has been a while since they have seen each other, and the last time was only for an hour. Then Henry smiles and launches himself straight at Humphrey.

‘Uncle!’

Humphrey catches him, hugs him tight. It might not be an entirely proper way to greet the king, but he can hardly _ignore_ Henry’s greeting. Henry’s hand tugs at Humphrey’s doublet.

‘Up!’ he demands.

Humphrey climbs to his feet, lifting Henry as he does. Beside him, Catherine rises as well, brushing dust from her skirt with a small smile. He drops his head down and kisses the crown of Henry’s head, grinning when the boy looks up at him with such affection, such adoration.

‘I’m glad to see you as well,’ Humphrey says.

‘Uncle,’ Henry says, full of excitement. ‘There are _ducks._ ’

Humphrey blinks. ‘Ducks?’

Henry nods.

‘In the moat?’

There’s nowhere else Humphrey can imagine ducks would be in this place. Unless Henry’s smuggled them into his bedchamber. It had been a game, when Humphrey was little, to see what he could smuggle up to his room. Mite, the cook’s cat, had been his favourite, but his best achievement was the swan – though, he’d gotten a nasty bite that made Harry put an end to the game. But if Henry’s managed a whole brace of ducks – well, that would be very impressive.

But Henry just nods as if Humphrey’s being particularly slow. ‘I watch them! They swim lots and fly and waddle – and, and sometimes they dive down in the water and all you can see is their, their—’ his voice drops into a whisper, his cheeks blush ‘— _bottoms_. Sticking up!’

Humphrey grins. ‘Oh, do you? You must show me these ducks, then.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Catherine’s dubious expression and smiles in effort to reassure her. It doesn’t seem to help. He turns his full attention back to Henry.

‘Do you need a cloak?’

Humphrey doesn’t think so, it’s colder inside than out and Henry’s already bundled up thickly. Henry shakes his head so Humphrey sets Henry on the ground and takes his hand, supposing Henry has a favourite place to watch the ducks from. Perhaps he should send to the kitchens for some bread so they can feed them – but best see how many ducks there are first.

*

Henry seems to take a strange route, leading Humphrey upstairs and through passageways before stopping at a window and clambering up onto a chest set beneath it. Humphrey, confused, sits down beside him as Henry points at the window. Through the glass, they can see the moat, the waters a glassy green and blue, and there are ducks there, some perched on the ground beside the moat, some paddling in its waters.

Humphrey frowns, though he’s quick to hide it from Henry.

‘This is where you watch them?’

Henry nods, clambering onto Humphrey’s lap and resting his head against Humphrey’s chest, all the time twisting to stare out the window. Humphrey moves so the boy is not so contorted.

‘You don’t go outside to see them?’

‘Not allowed.’

Humphrey’s mouth opens, then he closes it. He wants to ask _why_ but he doesn’t think Henry would really know. But it is not fair that Henry’s caged in, that he is not even allowed to see the ducks he so obviously loves.

‘Well,’ Humphrey says decisively. ‘We will today.’

Henry stares up at Humphrey with enormous eyes. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Henry grins and the way his dark eyes change, filling with light, is so similar to how Harry’s eyes used to go when he smiled and meant it. Humphrey hugs Henry tight.

He sends an attendant for Henry’s cloak – he doesn’t think Henry will need it, but it is better to be safe than not – and another for bread, before he picks Henry up and sets him on the ground. Together, they go down the stairs and outside, past the gardens and down towards the moat.

The day is as lovely as it was when he arrived. The sun has baked the grounds to a gentle warmth and the sky is clear save for one or two lazy clouds. Henry’s small hand clutches at Humphrey’s, his eyes wide as they study his surrounds but always turning back to the moat and the ducks.

‘Why did you ask for bread, Uncle? Are you hungry?’

Humphrey laughs and squeezes Henry’s hand gently. ‘No, not particularly. It’s not for me.’

‘But _I’m_ not hungry,’ Henry says. ‘I ate lots this morning. Nurse says I have to so I grow up to be big and strong like my lord father.’

It hurts to hear Henry mention Harry and to remember that Harry never even saw his child, that Henry has never even been hugged by his father. Harry gave the best hugs Humphrey ever had. He stares out towards the moat, the sun’s reflection shimmering on its reflection, until the pain grows less.

‘I’m sure you will,’ Humphrey says. ‘No, the bread’s not for us. It’s a surprise.’

‘Nurse says surprises aren’t good for me. Says they disrupt my humours.’

‘Does she?’

Humphrey wonders if he should check with the nurse about that, she’s sure to know more about the raising of children than he does. But no one ever told him that surprises disrupted humours and surely, given how cursedly sick he was as a child, _someone_ would’ve said so in front of him at least once.

‘Or are you just desperate to know the surprise?’

Henry giggles, pressing his face into Humphrey’s leg. ‘Maybe?’

 _Maybe._ Better not risk it.

‘Well, then,’ Humphrey says, ‘the bread is for the ducks. We’re going to feed them.’

Henry pulls away from Humphrey, staring, and _bounces._ It’s the only word for it. He’s so happy, his face flooded with bright joy, and body practically bursting with excitement.

‘Really? We’re going to feed them?’

‘Yes.’

Henry lunges forward and hugs Humphrey’s legs hard. ‘You’re the best, uncle.’

*

When they get down to the moat, Henry stands stock still and stares at the ducks. He doesn’t try and charge at them and then become upset that they run away, like Humphrey feared. It’s as though he’s already heard the lecture Harry used to give Humphrey about treating animals gently. He doesn’t seem scared either. He’s holding Humphrey’s hand and not trembling or trying to press closer. It seems as though he’s in awe of them more than anything else.

It worries Humphrey a little. These are _ducks,_ and this is the first time Henry has been allowed to actually look at them close to. He should be excited and ready to run right into their midst. They’re cute little things, most are brown but some have iridescent emerald feathers on their heads and a ring of white around their necks.

‘Alright?’

‘I – oh,’ Henry says. He squirms a bit. ‘They’re so pretty.’

‘They are,’ Humphrey says. ‘Do you have a favourite?’

Henry opens his mouth, then shuts it. ‘The ones with green heads, they’re really pretty. But the brown ones – they look friendly.’

‘They do. And look!’

Humphrey points towards a set of rocks where a brown duck stands beside several ducklings, fluffy little things with brown and yellow feathers. Henry bounces again.

‘Ooh! Babies! Baby ducks!’

Humphrey squeezes Henry’s hand, then leads him to a stone bench that has been set near the shore. He settles Henry down on it and then gestures for the attendant he sent for the bread. He breaks off a corner of the loaf, tears it into smaller pieces and drops them into Henry’s outstretched palms.

‘There we go,’ he says. ‘Trying throwing a few pieces to them.’

Henry nods very seriously as if he’s been asked to feed emperors and kings alike, and he throws a couple of pieces towards the ducks. His throw falls short, the bread landing closer to them than the ducks, and the ducks don’t seem to notice the offer of food and come running.

Henry turns to Humphrey, looking close to tears. ‘I can’t do it. They don’t like me.’

Humphrey wraps an arm around him. ‘Why shouldn’t they like you?’

Shrugging, Henry presses his face against Humphrey’s chest, then climbs onto his lap. Humphrey secures his grip and presses his lips to Henry’s forehead.

‘Don’t know,’ Henry mumbles at last.

‘Well, you can do it. You just have to throw the bread really, really far, because they’re wild birds, you see. They’re a little frightened of us, they won’t want to get too close but once they realise they’re getting fed—’

‘I _can’t,_ ’ Henry says. ‘I _told_ you. They don’t like me.’

Humphrey takes a breath. It’s ridiculous, of course, the birds hardly know Henry even exists. But Henry is on the verge of crying or, worse, a tantrum. It won’t help to tell him how unreasonable he’s being when he’s so obviously upset. He hugs Henry tighter, rubbing his back. This is supposed to be a nice experience for the boy, not one that ends in tears and frustration.

‘Alright,’ he says. ‘These ducks are very silly, then, not liking you. You’re a kind, sweet boy.’ He pauses. ‘Do you think they’re silly enough to like me?’

Henry sucks his lip in and nods. ‘Of course! You’re the best.’

‘Oh no,’ Humphrey says. ‘No, I’m not. But I think – maybe, they might let me feed them?’

Henry nods again, dropping the collection of bread fragments into Humphrey’s hand. Humphrey throws a few pieces, hearing Henry gasp as one duck investigates the bread before gobbling it and looking around for more. Humphrey throws more, slowly getting them to move closer and closer to the bench they’re seated on. Henry alternates between squirming with excitement and sitting very still with his hands clasped together in wonderment. As Humphrey hopes, one of the ducks finds the bread Henry had thrown and scoffs it down.

‘Did you see that?’ Humphrey says. ‘Come on. You have a go.’

He tips some of the bread into Henry’s hand. Henry chews on his lip and tosses a piece near one of the green-headed ducks. The bread’s gone in moments and soon Henry has taken over most of the feeding, growing in confidence as they tear through the loaf and the ducks still seem eager for more.

*

It’s beginning to get late. The sun is still out, but a wind has picked up. Humphrey has wrapped Henry in his cloak, but if the ducks are well-fed, then Humphrey and Henry aren’t. The bread is almost all gone, though Henry says he’s saving the last pieces for the baby ducks.

‘Uncle, look!’ Henry whispers, pointing towards the other side of the moat. ‘Swans!’

Sure enough, there are three or four white swans gliding on the surface of the moat. Humphrey remembers leaving for Harfleur eleven years ago and the swans that flown on before their ships. It was said to be a good omen. He touches the swan badge on his own doublet.

‘Do you know what swans are, Henry?’

Henry nods. ‘Pretty ducks!’

Humphrey bites back his laughter and hugs Henry tighter. He’s not really wrong.

‘Well, yes, and they’re one of the symbols of our house – see, like my badge.’

Henry’s small fingers trace the edge of the badge. ‘We’re pretty ducks?’

Humphrey laughs out loud this time. ‘Something like that, yes,’ he says. ‘Come on, we best get you up to the house before your mother worries too much.’

‘But I’ve got to feed the babies!’

‘Of course. How could I forget?’

He picks Henry up and carries him closer to the where the ducklings and their mother are, settling him down far enough away that they don’t spook and flee, but close enough that Henry’s throws won’t go short. Soon, Henry’s tossing bread and the ducklings are eating under their mother’s watchful eye. Henry seems so happy, so content with his task that Humphrey is a little sad when they run out of bread.

*

Henry’s head is nestled against Humphrey’s shoulder as they head back to the castle. He must be tired and he’s young enough to still need naps in the afternoon. When they step inside, out of the sun, Henry thanks Humphrey very earnestly for taking him to see the ducks, and Humphrey promises to take him out to do the same every day he is staying with them. Perhaps Henry’s nurse can be encouraged to do the same when Humphrey leaves.

Humphrey rounds the corner and finds Catherine and Henry’s nurse waiting for them. The nurse steps forward, holding out her arms, and Humphrey passes over Henry, feeling suddenly lessened. His side, where Henry has been pressed, is cold, and his arm isn’t quite sure what to do without the weight of a child in it.

‘Mama!’ Henry says. ‘I fed baby ducks!’

Catherine smiles. ‘That’s very nice, Henry. Did you thank your uncle of Gloucester for taking you out?’

Henry nods. ‘He says we can go tomorrow and the day after and the day after and the day after – so long, so long as he’s here.’

Catherine shoots Humphrey a strange look. He shrugs and tries to look reassuring. He’s hasn’t done any harm to the boy, has he? He made sure Henry was warm, took him in when it was time for his nap and didn’t let him wander off, even if Henry never showed the slightest inclination. Henry seems happy – very happy – in spite of the earlier, but thankfully brief, upset.

‘I’m sure you will enjoy that, Henry,’ she says. ‘But you look very tired now.’

‘I’m not.’

Whatever his protestations and however much he pouts, a yawn splits Henry’s sweet little face open and the nurse whisks him away, leaving Humphrey and Catherine alone save their attendants. Humphrey offers her a tentative smile that feels a little sheepish. He does not know her that well and he can only wonder at what she thinks of him.

‘Every day, he looks out that window and watches the ducks. He loves them,’ she says. ‘It was kind of you to take him out to see them. Not many would do that.’

‘Harry would,’ he says. ‘I mean, that was the sort of thing he did with me when we were children—’

‘Of course,’ Catherine says, averting her eyes. ‘Of course.’

Humphrey nods. He feels she has cut his tongue. He cannot speak. He is cold again. He crosses his arms over his chest and waits for her to dismiss him.

‘How did you find him? Henry, I mean.’

Humphrey frowns. She sounds nervous and her clasped fingers are twitching. He doesn’t understand why – but Henry is her first child. Perhaps she is only looking for reassurance that he is as all children should be.

‘He is very young,’ Humphrey says. ‘But well behaved. A little sensitive, perhaps, but a sweet boy.’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘He is sensitive.’

‘I thought he would be too boisterous with the ducks, and scare them – but he was perfectly behaved.’

‘I would expect that of him,’ she says. ‘I am – worried. His nurse says he is not very intelligent.’

Humphrey’s frown deepens. He has only spent a few hours with the boy, so he can hardly be called a fair judge but he doubts that.

‘He did not seem lacking in wits to me,’ he says. ‘He is only four years old. But I was a little concerned that he has been – well, _cloistered._ ’

‘Ah, yes,’ she says and averts her eyes. ‘He is precious, though.’

‘He is.’

Henry is Harry’s only child. And, Humphrey supposes, King of England and France, however small his shoulders are for such a burden.

Humphrey shifts. He wishes Henry had other siblings, brothers he could rough-house with and sisters he would learn to dote on and protect. There is nothing that can be done about that now. He made Harry promise to have more children on that night at Meaux, but of course nothing came of it. There is no point in telling Catherine this; he mentioned it to John when they were trying to get drunk to forget that they had buried Harry, and John called him a fool, amongst other things.

‘Are there no other children here?’

‘None of appropriate rank,’ Catherine says.

‘I suppose not,’ Humphrey says. ‘But it would do him good, to have someone to play with.’

‘Perhaps you are right. You have children of your own, don’t you? Perhaps they can stay with us for a while.’

He thinks of the baby that he and Jacqueline lost and feels pain stab right through his belly. But Catherine doesn’t mean that child. She means Arthur with his crooked smile and Antigone with her dark eyes. His natural children.

‘If you wish for them to stay, they will,’ he says. ‘But they are not—’

‘Oh. Yes. I suppose bastards are not appropriate company for a king.’

Of course she is right. Of course it hurts to hear it. Arthur and Antigone have done nothing wrong – the sin was his.

‘But you never know,’ he says. ‘The Beauforts have risen quite high.’

She laughs and presses her hand to her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she murmurs. ‘Yes, they have.’

*

Towards the end of the evening meal, Humphrey feels better settled. There is enough noise that the castle does not seem so quiet and the fires have banished the chill clinging to the stone. Henry, seated beside him, has made a valiant go at sampling all the dishes laid out before them and a few times Humphrey and Catherine, seated either side of Henry, have had to remind him to wash his hands or to wipe his mouth. But now the last dish has been sampled and Henry, hands and mouth sticky with remnants of marchpane, seems almost to doze at the table. Humphrey turns back to the daryols on his plate and begins the delicate business of eating the custard and leaving behind the crust. Something – or _someone_ – tugs on his sleeve.

‘Uncle,’ Henry says, hand fisted around the velvet of Humphrey’s sleeve. ‘Will you tell me a story?’

Before Humphrey can even blink, much less set down his spoon and respond, Catherine speaks.

‘Your uncle is in need of rest, Henry. Your nurse can put you to bed tonight and Gloucester will tell you a story tomorrow when you are both – oh, sweet boy, do not cry. It is hardly—’

‘No, no, no, no, _no,_ ’ Henry whines, thick tears falling onto his cheeks.

Humphrey grimaces at Catherine who mouths _sorry_ at him, then bends his head towards Henry. ‘What are all these tears for? I can tell you a story if you want.’

‘Mama said – Mama said you can’t. Said you’re tired so, so you have – have to nap.’

Humphrey smiles. His nephew is adorable. ‘Oh, I don’t nap, and I have a lot of good stories to share with you. Here’s what we’ll do. Your nurse will go and take you for a bath – you _do_ look a little sticky there, Henry – and put you to bed. Then I will come and tell you a story.’

Henry sniffles, snot bubbling out of his nose, and lets go of Humphrey’s sleeve to rub a fist over his eyes.

‘Promise?’

‘Promise,’ Humphrey says solemnly.

He leans in and uses Henry’s napkin to try and clean up his face up a little; he’s not very successful so he hugs Henry tight and gestures the boy’s nurse over. Once Henry’s been whisked away, Catherine sighs.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I tried to spare you and only made it worse.’

‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘I’m happy to spend as much time with him as he wants – I’m only here for him, after all.’

‘But you spent hours travelling here, you must be tired…’

He shrugs. It doesn’t matter to him, of course – he hasn’t slept well since his return to England and he’s inclined to stay up until weariness makes it hard to resist sleep, no matter how cold or empty his bed feels. It comes to him that this will be the first night in a long time he will sleep alone.

*

Henry looks decidedly less sticky when Humphrey arrives, tucked up in bed in clean, white sheets, a nightcap on his head. Humphrey bows shortly and moves forward to sit on the chair set at his bedside. Henry’s dark, bright eyes focused on him. Humphrey smiles at him.

‘So,’ he says. ‘A story, yes?’

Henry nods.

Humphrey leans back in his seat, casting his eyes to the ceiling. This room is infinitely brighter and more cheerful than the hall, thanks to Catherine’s _interference._ But the tapestries still seem a little sober to his eyes. He takes a breath and casts about for a story.

‘Once,’ he says. ‘There were four brothers. They were close as close could be. There were no secrets between them and they were happy.’

‘What were their names?’

Humphrey stops. He hasn’t thought that far ahead, really, and he doesn’t think he can get away with using his brothers’ names. ‘The eldest was Jasper. He was the best of them – brave and strong, wise and loving. The next was Lionel, and he was reckless and brash, but he had a big heart. Third was William, who was reliable and always strong.’

‘And fourth?’ Henry asks.

‘Fourth was Edward,’ Humphrey says. ‘He wasn’t much, really – he was a fool, but they loved him all the same.’

Henry nods and Humphrey wonders what he’s meant to do with these brothers now.

‘They were always together,’ Humphrey says, knowing he’s repeating himself. ‘And they were happy. But their father wanted to separate them—’

‘Why?’

‘Their father was going on an adventure and he was only permitted to take one son with him, and the king wished to take another into his service.’

‘The father sounds mean. Why’d he have to take one brother with him, but not the others?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose he didn’t want to leave behind all of his sons,’ Humphrey says. ‘But the brothers weren’t happy about being split up. Lionel might be excited to go with their father, but he knew he’d miss his brothers more. It wasn’t fair that he was the only one allowed to have an adventure. So the brothers got together and plotted, and the night before they were to go their separate ways, they woke up very, very early – so early the stars were still shining and they snuck down to the stables…’

The brothers take horses and provisions, and run away. Humphrey drags the story out, makes the act of running away sound like a big adventure – a creaking stair, a barking dog threaten to undo them and raise the alarm. But Henry’s eyelids are drooping so he ties the story up neatly, has the four brothers get away underneath the stars and moon, freedom and adventures all before them. He leans in to kiss Henry’s forehead.

‘Thank you, uncle,’ Henry murmurs sleepily. ‘That – that was good.’

*

The room smells of flowers and sweet green herbs and the water drawn for Humphrey’s bath is warm and scattered with dried meadowsweet, lavender and rose petals that he thinks are meant to soothe him. He closes his eyes and leans back against the sponges cushioning him from the hard edge of the tub. Soon, he will grow sick of his solitude and call his attendants in to wash him. But for now, the false serenity holds.

He unbends his knees and props his feet up on the edge of the bath. His legs are long and pale, well-muscled and unmarked save the dark hair growing on them and an ugly scar on the inside of his left thigh. He looks at it now; the raised line of rigid flesh.

There had been a fierce press of bodies and he was so terrified he thought he was shitting himself inside his armour. Sweat was spilling into his eyes and he knew he must stay on his feet, that he must keep his sword in his hand. And then, he felt something, like someone had punched his thigh all the way down to the bone, and he looked down and saw the lance and he shoved it back, the tip gory – surely it was not _his_ blood – and fell, everything going black.

The next he remembered was Harry screaming, _guard, guard._ Humphrey tried to rise to obey him. But his leg would not support him and the pain came, white-hot and terrifying. He looked, and there was so much red. He could not move and there were more men-at-arms bearing down on them and Humphrey was going to die. But Harry was there – he must have _seen –_ and he saved Humphrey.

What would have happened if Harry hadn’t? Humphrey bites his lip and stares up the ceiling, hung with sheets filled with herbs and flowers. If Harry had not called _guard, guard,_ had not stood above Humphrey until Humphrey was safe? He would have died, of course, and Jacqueline might say that was for the better. But what would have happened after?

Would Harry have lived? Or Thomas? Would it be as simple as trading a life for a life? Humphrey would have paid that price. He wanted to pay it in the mud of Agincourt when he saw Harry driven to his knees, a piece of his crown knocked from his head, all in defence of Humphrey. He would pay that price even now, safe in his bath, if it meant Harry or Thomas would still be alive.

Humphrey drops his legs back into the bath, looks away from the scar and calls for his attendants. It is time he is washed and put to bed.

*

He sleeps poorly. The bed is too empty and cold. He misses Eleanor and even Jacqueline, though they could not bear to touch each other in the last months they had together. He is not used to sleeping alone. His body is stiff and sore and he wakes repeatedly in the night to roll onto his side or his back or belly in hope that it will alleviate the pain. His dreams are vivid and he wakes only to be thrown into the next and he cannot remember them except in disconcerting shapes, a sense of unease. The fire burns down low and a servant comes to stoke it up and he stares at the dark hangings around his bed and feels the weariness of his body and the inability to sleep.

In the morning, he lies in the bed and knows he must soon be roused. The bells will ring for Matins, and then Prime, and then Terce. He cannot sleep through that noise. Harry used to hear mass three times every morning. Humphrey doesn’t know why he thinks of that now but he does and he doesn’t want to remember Harry when he is weak from a poor night’s sleep.

He turns on to his side. The sun is beginning to rise. He pushes himself up and punches the pillow, drops his head back down. Sleep, he wants to sleep, but he cannot—

By the time the bells ring for the Prime, he is dressed and on his knees in the chapel, and it is cold. Henry is there as well, looking small and positively rotund with the furs bundled around him. He is serious and quiet as he kneels and Humphrey reminds himself that he must show at least as much piety and concentration as a boy of all four years. He presses his face against his hands and calls himself foul names until he feels appropriately guilty.

They sing Harry’s _Sanctus_ with solemn, echoing voices, and he wishes they would not.

*

Henry is quiet when they go down to the ducks, clinging to Humphrey’s hand and sticking close. Humphrey does not remember being like this as a child. Even Blanche and Philippa would not be as still and quiet as this and they were constantly told that they were _ladies_ and they should act like it. He wonders if this is just Henry’s nature or if he has been upset by something.

He stops and scoops Henry up in his arms. The boy burrows his head under Humphrey’s chin and Humphrey rubs his back gently.

‘Are you alright? Did someone say anything mean to you?’

Henry shakes his head.

‘If you don’t want to go down to the moat, we can do something else…’

‘No! I want to!’

Humphrey squeezes Henry a little tighter to reassure him and keeps walking them down towards the water. He wonders what it is that keeps Henry so quiet and shy, but isn’t sure how to ask without making Henry feel he has done something wrong. All he can do, he supposes, is give Henry enough affection that he feels comfortable enough to let go of his reserve or shyness and just _speak._

He settles Henry down on the bench seat and begins to pull the bread apart. One duck wanders over and Humphrey presses a corner of the bread into Henry’s hand. Henry breaks it into smaller pieces and throws it to the duck, who happily takes the lion’s share before the other ducks begin to converge on them.

‘Uncle,’ Henry says. ‘Would my… do you think…’

He throws some bread, watching the ducks eat with none of the delight he showed yesterday.

‘Would he have liked me? My father?’

Oh. Humphrey sits down next to Henry. So this is what has been worrying his nephew. He doesn’t know what to say, thinks all he wants to do is swallow his own fist so he doesn’t start crying. Not in front of Henry, who would not understand.

‘I asked Mama but she – she doesn’t like talking about my lord father.’

Humphrey nods. She had clearly not wanted to hear Humphrey talk about Harry. Perhaps it is her own grief, perhaps not, and he should not judge her for that. But Henry wants to know and, as the last piece of Harry left, he has the right to.

‘Yes,’ Humphrey says at last. ‘He would have absolutely loved you.’

Henry does not seem convinced. He passes a crumb of bread between his hands, then throws it for the ducks.

‘He loved me, after all,’ Humphrey offers.

He knows it isn’t much. Henry doesn’t understand Humphrey really, doesn’t understand his failures the way John or Jacqueline do. Humphrey sighs and rests a hand on Henry’s shoulder.

‘I was with him, when the news came of your birth,’ he says, and then he stops.

He doesn’t know how to explain how Harry had changed and for a brief moment, he had seemed again the brother had been shy and warm before he learnt that to survive meant he must be ruthless and cold. Henry knew nothing about Harry, really – Catherine obviously did not speak of him and even if she did, she had only known him for two years at the end of his life. There is no one else here who could fill the gaps in Henry’s knowledge.

‘I hadn’t seen him be that happy in a long, long time,’ he says. ‘It was like the years were nothing and he was free and hopeful again. He wanted so much for you, we spoke of so many possibilities—’

Not plans, Harry was too circumspect for plans. He would take counsel and then match the advice given with his own wisdom and act. Henry is staring at Humphrey and he seems reassured, but also a little confused. Humphrey smiles at him.

‘He loved you.’

‘But he never met me.’

‘You don’t have to know someone to love them,’ Humphrey says. ‘I loved you before I was even in the same country. Your uncle of Bedford – I know he loves you, though he hasn’t seen you in years.’

‘I suppose,’ Henry says. ‘Do you miss other-uncle?’

‘Yes.’

Though he supposes John doesn’t miss him much; he has always been John’s least favourite person. Humphrey sighs, and leans over, picking Henry up and giving him a good cuddle.

‘Let’s try something,’ Humphrey says.

He carries Henry a little closer to the water and settles down on the grass with Henry on his lap. The ducks veer away from them and then come waddling back. Henry squirms with excitement again, a truly joyful smile breaking across his face. Together, they throw enough food that the ducks mill around them.

‘Why you don’t try petting one of them?’ Humphrey says. ‘Just gently – they won’t mind.’

‘Can I really?’

Humphrey nods and Henry reaches one small hand out, running it over the brown feathers of the mallard closest to them. It doesn’t seem to notice but if anything Henry’s excitement grows, though he’s always gentle and careful. By the time they’ve run out of bread, Henry’s stroked every duck he can reach and his sad mood is forgotten.

*

When they’re close to the gardens, Humphrey encourages Henry to let go of his hand and run about. The boy seems overawed by the possibility and runs laps around the gardens. He sometimes stops and checks that Humphrey is still there and watching him, and comes running back for a hug or to show Humphrey some pretty leaf or stone he’s found. When he seems to be lagging by the violets, Humphrey crosses to him and sets Henry on his shoulders.

Henry rests his chin on Humphrey’s hat. ‘Should we bring back flowers for Mama?’

Humphrey is not sure if Catherine would thank them for a handful of scraggly violets, nor would the gardeners be pleased to have the first flowers of spring defaced. But he doesn’t want to disappoint Henry, really, and casts around for something in better condition than the violets.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘A few snowdrops. They’ll be pretty in a little vase.’

*

Catherine takes the snowdrops with grace when Henry presents them to her. It is not, perhaps, the most noble or chivalric of moments – a four-year-old scampering into the room to shove a fistful of flowers towards his mother’s face while shouting, _Mama, look what we got you._

‘Oh, these are lovely,’ Catherine says, taking them and pressing her nose into the petals. She gives them to one of her damsels, a slender girl with rather prominent teeth, to place in a vase, and then reaches to set Henry on her lap, kissing his cheek. ‘Thank you, sweet-thing. Was it your idea?’

Henry nods. ‘Uncle Gloucester chose the flowers though.’

‘Well, he has good taste.’ Catherine sends him a small smile.

Henry’s nurse looks sour-faced. Humphrey suspects she wants to chide Henry for using his outdoor voice inside and, while it _is_ not proper behaviour, it is the first time Henry has behaved as boisterously as most four-year-old boys Humphrey has known. That is something to be celebrated, not scolded.

‘Your grace,’ the nurse says, instead. ‘It is time for your nap.’

Henry whines and, to be fair, he doesn’t seem that tired. Catherine shushes him and wraps her arms around him.

‘He can stay a little bit longer – and I will put him down for his nap later myself.’

‘Uncle’s going to tell me another story tonight,’ Henry says. ‘Uncle, I want more about the four brothers.’

Humphrey feels Catherine looking at him and does not think he imagines her faint disapproval. He crosses his hands behind his back and nods, determined to ignore it.

‘Of course. They had many, many adventures which means there are many, many stories to tell.’

*

The story Humphrey tells that night is based on one Harry told him, after King Richard had – _abdicated,_ their father insisted, _been deposed,_ Harry said – about a tree called Oak-branch that could walk and talk. In that story, Oak-branch is lonely but helps rescue a boy that had been stolen by faeries and replaced by a changeling find his family, defeat the changeling and live happily ever after.

In the story Humphrey tells Henry, the four brothers get lost in the forest and are helped by Oak-branch, who is lonely. The second brother, Lionel, seems not to like Oak-branch but when he realises how lonely Oak-branch is, he insists that they will help him find another just like him, for he cannot only be only walking, talking tree in the wide world.

‘Do they find another one?’ Henry asks. He has pulled his cover up to his nose and all Humphrey can see are his wide, sad eyes. ‘I hope so. Oak-branch shouldn’t be alone.’

‘He won’t be,’ Humphrey says. ‘But that’s another story.’

‘What about their father? Is he sorry he tried to split the brothers up?’

‘I think he is,’ Humphrey says. ‘But he may find his sons again. Which brother is your favourite?’

Henry screws his eyes up, thinking and thinking hard.

‘They’re all so good,’ he says. ‘Jasper – he’s the bravest and he always looks after everyone. And Lionel is funny, the way he’s so mean but he’s so soft inside. William’s great too – you can always trust him to do the right thing. And Edward – I like that he likes everyone.’

‘So all of them are your favourite?’ Humphrey says, laughing when Henry nods.

‘Will you tell me more of their stories?’

‘One a day, for as long as I am here. Tomorrow: the tale of the brothers and the meeting of Oak-branch and Leaf-lock.’

‘They’ve got funny names, uncle.’

‘Of course they do, they’re trees. Or do you think trees all call each other Henry and Edward, Lionel, Thomas and John?’

Henry giggles and shakes his head. ‘I suppose not. But being called Oak-branch would be like being called English-arm and being called Leaf-lock like being called Hairy-hair.’

Humphrey grins. ‘I suspect trees aren’t very good at naming themselves.’

‘Maybe it’s because they’re just in a story,’ Henry says.

‘That as well.’

Humphrey smiles. Henry seems quite smart, for all his four years and all Catherine’s concerns. Humphrey was nearly twice Henry’s age before he stopped believing everything in stories. He leans in and kisses Henry’s forehead, tucking the blankets close around him before taking his leave for the night.

*

The days slip past with a lazy kind of forgetful rhythm. He hears three masses in the morning, like Harry used to, and takes Henry out in the afternoon to feed ducks – they have patted many ducks and even gotten them to eat from their hands. When Henry naps, Humphrey sits with Catherine in the solar or walks with her in the garden and they talk of idle things – the heat of the sun, the spring frosts. He is careful not to mention Harry, she is careful not to ask about Jacqueline. In the evenings, he eats and then goes and tells Henry a story or two – the brothers’ adventures all the time progressing. And when Henry is close to sleep, Humphrey leaves and tries to fill himself up with wine so he will not notice that his bed has only himself in it.

It works, in a way. He is stupefied by the warmth of his bath water and the scent of lavender and green herbs. The wine dulls his wits, eases the ache inside his chest, and a day of prayer and sunshine has tired his body. He sleeps and forgets and when he wakes, he does not notice, at first, how heavy his guilt and sadness are.

It will be four years, this August, since Harry died. And in a week or so, it will be thirteen years since their father died and, two days after that, five years since Thomas was slaughtered on the field.

His grief has changed, he supposes – he remembers the horrified shock that overtook him when the news came about Thomas and then Harry. It was not as though he thought they were immortal, that they would not and could not die, but rather that he believed he would die before them. They were both so strong, so everlasting, and he still felt like a sickly child beside them. Now, though, that shock has vanished and if he still ponders their absence as if it is an impossibility, he knows they are gone.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the blue of his bed hangings.

John will want him to go to Canterbury to mark their father’s and brother’s anniversaries since he cannot go himself. And of course Humphrey should go there but he does not want to leave. He is happy here, caught in the simple rhythm of warm days and cold nights.

*

Henry looks up at Humphrey, cheeks dimpling with a sunshine smile, and in his cupped hands, a small, fluffy duckling. Humphrey grins at the boy, settling a hand on Henry’s shoulder. He has come to accept that Henry is quiet and rather serious, but Harry was a little like that too.

A breeze is blowing through the trees, something that will likely pick up into something fiercer as the day verges into night. It might be the end of the early springtime warmth and a return to wintery weather. Humphrey hopes not.

‘We should go,’ he says. ‘We’ve nearly run out of bread.’

Henry lets the duckling go and spreads the last of the bread out for the ducks. Humphrey stands up and lifts Henry onto his shoulders. Henry giggles and clutches at Humphrey’s head.

‘I can see forever,’ he says. ‘There are the swans again! Uncle, can we feed the swans?’

‘Maybe,’ Humphrey says. ‘But from a distance. They’re not like ducks – much more vicious. One bit me as a child.’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘Yes. Very much.’

Henry makes a sympathetic noise, which is rather sweet and silly, given that Humphrey has had nearly thirty years to recover from the injury and suffered much worse ones besides. He squeezes Henry’s ankles and sets off for the castle.

‘Henry,’ he says. ‘I will have to leave soon. We’re coming soon to the anniversary of my father’s – your grandfather’s death – and I should be in Canterbury to mark it.’

Henry’s hands tighten in Humphrey’s hair. ‘Can I come too?’

‘I don’t… I don’t think it will be necessary. At least, not yet.’

‘Oh. But you’ll come back after, won’t you?’

‘Well, if you want me to, but I cannot stay here forever.’

Humphrey can imagine Henry frowning, but the boy only pulls off Humphrey’s hat and sets it on top of his own before pressing his chin onto Humphrey’s head. He squeezes Henry’s ankles again.

‘I will try and visit as often as I can,’ he offers.

‘What about the ducks? What will they do when you’re not here to take me down and feed them?’

‘I will talk to your mother, see if she or your nurse might take you down with them.’

‘And the brothers, what will happen with them?’

‘I will tell you what happened to them before I leave,’ Humphrey says. ‘You won’t be wondering.’

‘I suppose that will be alright, then.’

The wind picks up a fraction as they walk. It catches the loose fabric of Humphrey’s hat, sends it twirling into the air, a vivid red ribbon against the blue sky with fast-moving clouds. Henry’s giggle cuts off abruptly as the wind knocks the hat off his head.

‘Uncle!’

There is a little fear in his voice and he clutches at Humphrey’s head hard enough to hurt. At once, Humphrey slides Henry from his shoulders into his arms and hugs him tight, jerking his head at an attendant to fetch the hat from where it’s fallen amongst the herb garden.

‘It’s alright, Henry, it’s alright. It’s only the wind.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.’

‘I know,’ Humphrey says. ‘It was the wind, not you.’ The attendant returns, holding the hat aloft. ‘See?’ No harm done.’

*

He is meant to be sleeping, but the weariness has not dragged him to bed yet. He is going through the letters sent him, muddling up the order his clerk had painstakingly sorted them into. The business of his duchy of Gloucester is behind a letter from a poet begging for money, and after both of those is a letter from the mayor of London. Between the pages of an old letter from a retired clerk is the latest screed from Bishop Beaufort and somewhere is a letter from Harry when Humphrey was regent of England and Harry was in France. He finds one of Jacqueline’s letters, written when she was freshly arrived in England and passed onto to him by Eleanor.

He cannot hear Jacqueline’s voice when he reads it, only Eleanor’s. He sniffs at it, wondering if there is a whiff of Jacqueline’s perfume clinging to it still, but he can only smell dusty parchment. He lets it fall down amongst the others he has dismissed.

At last, he finds the letter from John he wanted. The last one he’s received. He holds it close to the candle and, between the cold words, tries to find the warmth in it. Whenever they played, John always picked on him – telling him silly stories and acting wounded when Humphrey didn’t believe him, pelting him with snowballs or else refusing to find him when they played the hiding game. But he always thought John loved him. This letter, however, has no affection in it.

He puts it aside, rests his head in his hands. He should – well, he doesn’t know what. He wants to write to John and remind him that they are brothers and the last of their family still alive save Philippa, who they haven’t seen in years. He wants to say, _remember how we planned to run away and be knights together when Father was going into exile with Thomas and Harry was going to be sent to live with King Richard? The stories we made up about the adventures we would’ve had? I have been telling some of them to Henry._

John would laugh at him and call him a fool. It was a child’s dream, a child’s story. It always had been. They would have been tracked down and hauled before their furious father and given a beating to remember their foolishness. And if not, they would have starved to death.

The wind has become a gale. It is like the roar of the sea, the always-moving crash of waves upon rocks, the threat of the storm lingering faintly in the air. It tears at tree and castle, sends the flames of his candles and fire flickering.

Humphrey puts John’s letter to the side, pulls Harry’s out. These words are not so cold, he thinks. They are formal and the only affection is found in the greeting which he knows is the convention, but still he knows Harry would have smiled when he wrote it. He raises it to his eyes until the words blur and become unreadable. Maybe he is mistaken. Maybe there is nothing in this but only duty. Only words.

He sets it down amidst the other letters and stretches out his hands before him. In the low light, the large sapphire set in the gold ring seems black. Harry gave it to him after Agincourt, saying Humphrey had fought well even in the face of Humphrey’s arguments to the contrary. _Harry_ had fought on with an arrow lodged in his skull at Shrewsbury. _Humphrey_ had fallen and had to be protected until he could be pulled from the field. He had not done anything worthy of note. Harry cuffed him lightly around his head and told him that it didn’t matter whether Humphrey won renown or not, he had fought well and Harry was proud of him.

There is a knock at his door; one of his attendants moves to answer it, little more than a living shadow Humphrey sees from the corner of his eyes.

‘Your grace,’ says a voice by the door. ‘The king requires you.’

*

Despite the roar of the gale, Henry’s room is warm, the fire burning bright and the candles all alight. The green bed-hangings are pulled back and the sheets rumpled. His nurse is standing by the bed, face very stern. There is no sign of Henry.

‘Your grace,’ the nurse says and performs a curtsy. ‘You did not have to come, I understand that you are a busy man with much to occupy you.’

He shrugs. He is here, at Leeds Castle, to see his nephew – what else does she think he would be doing? Why would he not come when word was sent that Henry needed him?

‘Where is he?’

‘It is in hand, your grace.’

Humphrey raises his eyebrows at her. It doesn’t look like it is in hand. Henry is nowhere in sight. He turns a slow circle in the room and still can’t see Henry, and Henry’s attendants do not seem willing to even hint at what’s happened.

She sighs. ‘Hiding.’

‘What? Why?’

It makes no sense. Did Henry summon him here to play a hiding game? But quite clearly his nurse would not let him stay up so late, much less indulge in a silly game at such an hour.

‘He’s frightened, your grace. Of the wind, you see.’

Oh. Humphrey lets out his breath in one long exhale and points to the bed, an old favourite place to hide when he was little. It was dark and small, you could hide there and not be seen and still have a whole range of exits open to you should someone – a monster – try to catch you there. The nurse nods.

‘Leave him there,’ she says. ‘He’ll come out eventually. He must learn to be less afraid.’

Humphrey stares at her, hands forming into fists. He thinks he hears a small whimper that must be Henry. She may know more about children that he, but her advice sounds callous and cruel, especially to a boy as sensitive as Henry.

Humphrey kneels down beside the bed and pulls back the drape of covers to peer underneath. Just the bottom of Henry’s heel, wrapped in a sock, can be seen. Humphrey takes a breath and lowers himself onto his belly and scoots underneath the bed.

‘I’m here, Henry,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to leave you.’

It’s hard to see, but he reaches out and manages to find Henry’s arm. He uses it to tug Henry closer to him, wrapping him up tightly. Henry clutches at him, trying to bury himself in Humphrey’s chest.

‘It is a bit scary, isn’t it? The wind, I mean. It sounds so big.’

Henry manages a terrified little nod. Humphrey tightens his grip.

‘But it’s only wind, you see. It can’t hurt you.’

At that moment, there comes the sound of a tree snapping and something falling, perhaps a stone or tile outside knocked loose to shatter on the ground. Henry yelps and jerks, body rigid. Humphrey rubs his back, kisses his messy hair.

‘It can’t, Henry. Not on its own. You’re safe and warm inside and the wind is just wind, it can’t get in and hurt you.’

It seems to help, but only a little. Humphrey hums, wishing he knew something to sing to a child to calm them. Catherine might know, but Catherine is – presumably – tucked up in bed, asleep and utterly unaware of her son’s terror. He doesn’t want to ask the nurse for help; she’d probably sing a song about spiders coming to eat little kings who were too terrified to sleep in their own beds.

‘I always liked hiding under my bed – or, really, one of my brother’s beds – when I was frightened. Best place in the world to hide,’ he tells Henry, deciding distraction might work better than reassuring him of his safety. ‘And if I had a bad dream, the person I always went to was Harry – your father. Sometimes he was grumpy because he’d been sleeping, but he always knew what to say to make me feel better.’

Harry should be here with them right now. He’d know what to say to make Henry stop trembling so. Humphrey can only guess.

‘It’s going to swallow me whole,’ Henry whispers. ‘Going to drag me off somewhere horrible. There’s a dragon in it and it’s going to eat me after it roasts me and there won’t be anything left of me.’

‘It won’t,’ Humphrey says. ‘I’ll protect you, I promise. It’s just wind. Just air, going fast.’

Henry shakes his head, mumbling into Humphrey’s chest. Humphrey doesn’t seem to be helping much. He wraps him up tighter, rubbing his back.

‘You know the secret about wind?’ Humphrey says, lowering his voice down to a whisper.

Henry shakes his head.

‘It always blows itself out.’

*

Somehow, he’s not exactly sure how, he manages to convince Henry to, firstly, let go of him and, secondly, move from under the bed to on top of it, where he promptly rewraps Henry in his arms. The nurse sighs and sits down in the chair next to the fire, but doesn’t seem inclined to intervene any further – which is fine, really. Henry clearly needs a gentle hand at the moment.

‘This is better, isn’t it? Much warmer…’

Henry nods and burrows closer. ‘You’ll stay, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Until you’re sleeping. Do you want some music?’

Perhaps if the minstrels came and played something soothing Henry will be distracted from the terrible sound of the wind. But Henry shakes his head and Humphrey knows better than to push.

‘Uncle, what about the ducks? Are they alright?’

‘Of course,’ Humphrey says. ‘They know the best places to hide and take shelter when the weather gets a little wild. The lord-ducks will look after the lady-ducks who will make sure the baby-ducks are safe.’

Henry nods, relaxing only a tiny amount.

‘What about a story, then? The four brother-knights?’

Henry seems uncertain, but he nods at last and Humphrey squeezes him. He casts his mind back over the stories he’s already told Henry. The brothers have become knights, united Oak-branch and Leaf-lock, travelled to the wild hills and fought trolls and wolves and other monsters. They have caught witches preying on a noble duke, fairies and elves playing tricks on innocent villages and earned praise. The eldest three have rescued poor Edward from his own foolishness more than once. Jasper is always the bravest, and Lionel has fallen in love with a fair maid named Margaret and they have plighted their troth amongst the daisies.

He supposes he will have to give fair maidens to the other brothers eventually and Henry wants to know what happened to their father, but he supposes it’s not a night for such tales. Something simpler.

Tonight, he decides to retell the tale of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, modifying it to include the four brothers and make it suitable for Henry. He remembers longingly that he once had a copy of it that Harry sent him years and years ago before he lost it. Humphrey cannot bear to commission a new one.

It seems to help Henry, who soon is a relaxed and warm weight against Humphrey’s chest, sleeping at last. Humphrey saves the end of the story for when Henry is awake and considers getting up and finding his own bed. But that would wake Henry and undo all the good he has done in getting him to sleep. He closes his eyes and settles himself in the bed as best he can without jostling Henry too much. He will stay, just a little longer, until Henry’s sleep is so deep that he won’t be roused.

*

Humphrey blinks. The hangings around the bed – all green and cloth of gold – are unfamiliar to him, and the weight on his chest is strange, lighter and more compact than Eleanor. He looks down and sees Henry’s messy, dark hair beneath his nightcap and lets out a long sigh, head falling back against the pillow. He is still in yesterday’s clothes and no doubt smells. He feels unwashed, a layer of sweat and dust on his skin. The wind is still blowing outside, but it is quieter, no longer a great roar of sound.

He scrubs a hand over his face and winces. He should wash and change clothes before he goes down to hear mass. No doubt people would remark on his rude appearance, think he had done something less fair than sitting up with his frightened nephew. But then, he thinks, he has not slept so well since he came to Leeds Castle, since he spent his last night with Eleanor.

Henry sighs and rolls onto his back, nearly toppling off Humphrey’s chest. Humphrey steadies him and wonders what the hour is, how long before they will be expected at mass. Not so long after, the nurse pulls back the hangings and makes a hasty curtsy when she sees he is awake.

‘It is time his grace to ready himself for mass,’ she whispers.

‘Of course.’

She reaches out and for a moment, he does not want to relinquish Henry, to hand him over, but he does. Henry lets out a sleepy whine as he wakes, blinking blearily around the room. Humphrey pushes himself up out of bed just as Henry catches sight of him.

‘Uncle!’

‘Morning, Henry,’ he says. ‘See, the wind did not carry any dragons or swallow you whole.’

‘You protected me,’ Henry says very seriously. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are most welcome,’ Humphrey says, sketching a small bow. ‘I am glad to have been of service.’

He smiles at Henry and promises to see Henry at mass, when they are both washed and dressed for the day. He returns to his room to command a quick bath and change of clothes and endures the three masses on his knees. He prays for the souls of his dead family, for the health, happiness and prosperity to his living family.

When he returns to Eleanor, he should send her away. It is not fair to bind her to him, to have her be called _slut_ and _whore_ as if she alone was responsible for the rift between him and Jacqueline. As if she alone was and is the cause of all ill in the world. She was the one, he thinks, who held them together until she could no longer bear the strain. But so few would understand what she is to them, how much he loves her. How much Jacqueline loves her, even with the seas and miles between them.

He should send her away so that her father may make a marriage suitable for her and protect her reputation from further damage. He does not want to, does not want to face the emptiness of his bed and heart. But it is what is best.

Yet he thinks of Eleanor’s pretty smile, the warmth in her eyes – the same warmth he had seen once reflected in Jacqueline. He loves Eleanor and knows she loves him – that had not changed in Hainault, no matter how he failed Jacqueline.

Is the love he bears his mistress more of a sin than the love he bears his wife? His love for Eleanor has been a match for his love of Jacqueline. How can it be wrong to love one and not the other?

And what of his love for his natural children? Is that somehow a sin while his love for his dead baby and his nephew isn’t sinful? He thinks of Henry curled up asleep on his chest, his nephew’s simple delight in ducks and swans. The way Harry had softened when the news came of Henry’s birth. Humphrey thinks of the way he and Jacqueline were so proud of their unborn child and then wept together over the empty, unneeded nursery. He thinks of Antigone’s dark eyes, her sleek braided hair and the way she comes running to greet him. Of Arthur’s crooked smile, his cleverness and the way he always wants to show off for Humphrey. Harry had not cared that Arthur was a bastard, taking him into his arms the moment Humphrey shyly presented his son to Harry.

He knows what his confessor would say, but surely _love_ is not a sin. He does not want to give these things up. He does not want to be sorry for them.

*

It is too windy to take Henry down to the moat – the boy could catch a chill and sicken – so instead Humphrey takes Henry just inside the courtyard, to some sheltered spot where they spy leaves and petals scattered over the ground, the servants working to repair the damage of last night’s gale. When that becomes tedious, Humphrey teaches Henry how to patiently lure swallows in with crumbs of bread. They spend an hour or so in raptured delight, watching the way these birds, so different from the ducks, flit about, darting in and darting back.

‘I don’t want you to go,’ Henry says.

Humphrey doesn’t say anything, but moves to wrap an arm around Henry’s thin shoulders and draw him close.

‘I know… I know you have to,’ Henry says. ‘For – for other, _other_ uncle and my lord grandfather. But I don’t want you to go.’

Henry is being very mature about this, Humphrey supposes. He doesn’t know what to say to make it better. He cannot promise to stay – he would like to stay here forever, the simplicity and quiet of his life. But Harry wanted him to be regent, wanted him to lead England while John was busy with France. He cannot spend his life hiding from the world.

‘I will come back.’

‘When?’ Henry says.

‘I don’t know.’

And he doesn’t. He will have to return to Jacqueline soon, if he gets parliament’s approval – and Harry would have assured it, but Beaufort, he thinks, will not – or finds funds elsewhere. But if he returns to Jacqueline, he will be very far away from Henry and might not see him for years. Even if he remains in England, he will be busy with the duties and responsibilities Harry wanted him to have.

‘Maybe you don’t want to come back.’

Humphrey laughs and squeezes Henry tight. ‘Henry, I don’t want to leave.’

‘So don’t!’

‘I am the Lord Protector of England. I have duties I cannot neglect.’

‘I’m king! You should stay if I say so.’

Humphrey pulls Henry onto his lap and hugs him tight. He doesn’t want to have to explain that, no, Henry’s commands have little weight and bearing while he is so young.

‘I will return and see you as often as I can,’ he promises instead.

‘Soon?’ Henry demands.

‘As soon as I can,’ Humphrey says. It is a poor balm for such worry, he knows, but it is the best he can offer. He will speak to Catherine, see if she has any ideas to ease the wound of his leaving.

Henry leans back, letting his head fall against Humphrey’s breastbone with a thud.

‘I want you and Mama to get married,’ he says. ‘Then you’d have to see me all the time.’

Humphrey has to stifle his laughter. Oh God, he cannot fathom being married to Catherine. When Harry was alive, she took note of no one else. Humphrey could have worn the brightest and most glittering of clothing and stood right before her and she would still have only looked at Harry. And of course, the very fact of it is impossible. Even if he was not wed to Jacqueline, even if Catherine would accept him, she is still his brother’s widow.

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Humphrey says gently.

‘But if it was—’ Henry lets out a frustrated sigh. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘I know.’

Henry sends the last bread crumbs scattering, watching as the swallows swoop down for them. Then he grabs Humphrey’s hand in both of his and holds it tight.

*

Humphrey does not wish to leave Henry like this. He speaks to Catherine and gains her promise that she will ensure Henry can still go and feed the ducks each day, if he wishes and if the weather permits. He sends his attendants out searching and they bring him what he asks for. Something that is, for children, priceless treasure in a box. A grey mother-cat with four white paws and a white belly called Whitefoot, and the four kittens she’s nursing. Two grey, one tortoiseshell-and-white, and one ginger boy. As all kittens are, they are adorable – liable to be all curious energy at one moment, then exhausted balls of fluff the next.

He takes them to show Catherine during Henry’s afternoon nap.

‘What have you got there?’ she says before he can even speak, arching one thin brow.

‘Something I wanted your opinion of,’ he says.

When he takes the box close enough that she can peer inside, she lets out a gasp of delight. She lifts out the ginger and rests her cheek against its small head.

‘Oh! They are so sweet – and for Henry, yes?’

He nods. ‘I thought it might – he is upset I am leaving, and I thought this will be a distraction, at least.’

‘He will be delighted. But, oh, you will not make him choose only one, will you? He would explode before he could bear to part with any of them.’

Humphrey laughs. ‘No, I feared that would happen – all are to be his, even the mother.’

Catherine smiles at him, kissing the head of the ginger one. She examines each kitten and passes them to her damsels to be beautified, their fur brushed and ribbons tied around their necks before they are returned to the box.

*

Even without having to choose between them, Henry still very nearly explodes when Humphrey shows him the kittens and tells him that they are his. Instead, he peers into the box and bursts into tears. Humphrey grabs Henry and hugs him tight. Maybe cats scare him, though Catherine would have surely known and said something if that was true. Henry squirms out of Humphrey’s arms and stares into the box again, and then jumps up and down on the spot, shaking his hands and arms out, fat tears bubbling out of his eyes.

‘Really?’ he asks. ‘Really really? They’re really mine?’

‘Yes!’

Henry bounces again and hugs Humphrey’s leg tight, only letting go to run around the room and come back to stare at the kittens. Humphrey begins to understand that this – this is Henry _happy,_ trying to work off his energy so he doesn’t frighten the kittens by grabbing at them. He understands how small and fragile they are and doesn’t want to frighten them. He’s such a good little boy, so careful and sensitive to other people’s and other creatures’ feelings.

This time, Humphrey grabs Henry, lifts up and spins him around before settling him on the ground.

‘The mother’s name is Whitefoot.’

‘Shouldn’t be Whitefeet? Cause she – she has four feet and they’re all white.’

‘I know,’ Humphrey says. ‘I suspect whoever named her thought Whitefoot sounded better.’

‘That’s silly. It’s _wrong._ ’

Humphrey grins. ‘Come on, let’s let them out to explore and you have a very important duty right now.’

Henry turns his head up to stare balefully at Humphrey.

‘ _You_ have to name all the kittens,’ he says. ‘They don’t have names and they need good, proper cat names. But I shall help, even if Harry always said I was terrible at naming things.’

He never thought Harry would allow him to live down naming his goat Alcestis as a misguided child. But there is probably no one save John who remembers that now, and John is in France and would consider it beneath his dignity to so much as whisper Alcestis’s name warningly.

Henry brightens at once and helps Humphrey lift each cat out of the box and set them on the ground, turning the box sideways so they can still hide amongst the old blankets if they wish. They sit on the rug by the hearth and watch the kittens explore.

‘What sort of names do cats have, uncle?’

‘Oh, I don’t… ours was called Mite, and I suppose Gilbert is common enough.’

‘I can’t call them _all_ Gilbert.’

Humphrey considers this and nods. It’s true, he can’t.

‘Do cats have special names?’ Henry asks, reaching to pet the tortoiseshell-and-white kitten. ‘You know, like how Oak-branch and Leaf-lock are special names for trees?’

‘I suppose they do,’ Humphrey says, though he doubts cats think much about names. ‘But no cat has ever shared the secret of their names, as far as I have heard or read.’

‘Cats are probably very good at keeping secrets.’

Humphrey smiles at Henry and scoops up one of the greys with a small patch of white on his chest to set him on Henry’s lap, though he doesn’t stay at long, tumbling off to bat at his mother’s tail.

‘What shall we name this fellow, do you think?’

In the end, he is dubbed Sir Smokey, while the other grey kitten becomes Countess Pounce when she – with great skill – tackles Sir Smokey from behind. The tortoiseshell-and-white one is named Lady Patches, because her coat looks as though it is made of patches of white, ginger and black.

The ginger boy is by far the bravest of the kittens, exploring every nook and cranny of Henry’s room before padding right up to Henry and climbing into his lap.

‘What do you think?’ Humphrey says. ‘Perhaps Sir Lancelot? Or Sir Gawain?’

Henry shakes his head, offers, ‘Jasper?’

‘He’s the same colour as jasper,’ Humphrey says.

Henry pulls a face.

He’s quiet as the kitten scales his arm to walk along Henry’s shoulder and butt his face against Henry’s jaw. Henry lets out a quiet sound of delight, reaching to pet the kitten carefully. The kitten purrs loudly.

‘Harry,’ Henry says decisively. ‘He’s brave and he loves me like my lord father.’

Humphrey smiles and feels like his face is cracking. By God, he hopes Catherine doesn’t mind. He turns and kisses Henry’s hair so the boy can’t see his face and think he’s done something wrong.

*

‘One last story,’ Humphrey says when evening comes and it’s time for Henry to go to bed.

The kittens are dozing in a pile at the foot of Henry’s bed, their mother curled around them protectively. In the morning, Humphrey will be leaving for Canterbury, to visit the tombs of his father and brother in time for their anniversaries. But for now, it is time for one last story about the four brother-knights.

‘But a little differently, tonight, I think,’ he says. ‘Now, the father of these brothers, whose name was Thomas, was much grieved when he found his sons gone. But he was determined to have his adventure anyway, for it would bring him great wealth and acclaim, though he scarcely needed it. He thought if his sons saw how much renown he won, they would return and be glad for him. But they knew nothing of it, and so their father tried all the greatest feats he could. He was the most famous man in the realm, save the king, and even then…’

Henry giggles at the face Humphrey pulls.

‘But it meant nothing to him, for he missed his sons. He thought, if I am king, they will return to me, for they will be my heirs. So he worked to win the king’s favour and when the king died – for he was very, very old – Thomas became king. But his sons did not return to him.’

‘Didn’t they know?’

‘I suspect they didn’t,’ Humphrey says. ‘Or they feared what it would mean to be the sons of a king. And what they remembered best of their father was that he wished to separate them. And, as you remember, they had made lives for themselves. Lionel was to be wed to fair Margaret after all. They were happiest when they were together, living simply.’

‘Oh.’

‘The king wed again and his new queen saw his unhappiness and asked what the matter was. She was very beautiful and very wise and she offered her counsel. She told him that he must no longer seek to draw his children to himself, but take himself to them. That he must no longer speak and expect to be heard, but listen and understand. So, he left the kingdom in her capable hands and set off on the road in disguise.’

‘What sort of disguise?’

‘Oh, a great, big hat, the plain garb of a pilgrim,’ Humphrey says. ‘He walked and walked and walked and he began to hear the rumour of four young men – brothers most likely – who had not sought fame, but merely offered aid and so won renown. If they were his sons, as he expected – for who else would such brave and noble men be? – then he was proud of them.’

‘Did he find them?’

Humphrey nods. ‘One night, a big storm blew up and he could find no shelter. He struggled on, sure he would drown, only to find himself hailed and brought into a rough shack. Four young men were there, the eldest of which had ventured out to bring the king inside. Well, the king could tell at once that these were his sons, but he could not admit to being their father.’

‘Why not?’

‘He was suddenly shy,’ he says. ‘And they did not recognise him. Anyway, they gave him the best place by the fire and a bowl of stew and each gave him an article of clothing so he could take off his wet things and become warm again. During the night, he saw how happy they were and realised how hollow his attempts to lure them back were. They had nothing, not even one castle or manor-house, and they were happy. He had wealth and fame beyond imagining but he could not imagine being as happy as they were.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He let them be,’ Humphrey says. ‘He stayed with them until the rain had eased and it was safe to travel, and then he left them.’

Henry is shocked. ‘Without telling them?’

‘If he told them, they would have changed and he didn’t want that. But Jasper followed him down to the road, sent him in the right direction and called him, _father._ He’d worked it out. So one month every year, the brothers would arrive at the court and pay homage to the king and then take him away to live with them, happy and free.’

‘Did they become king next?’

‘No,’ Humphrey says. ‘The king and queen had a baby and when the king passed – at a very old and venerable age – the baby, who by then was a handsome and wise young man, became king. But the brother-knights – well, no one knows what happened to them. Some say that they disappeared into legend and myth and that they still wander the country, righting wrongs and fighting for justice without glory.’

‘Are they still alive today?’

‘I hope so.’

Henry yawns, little mouth opening wide. ‘They’d be very old, then.’

‘But they’d still be happy.’

*

The morning is cool, grey clouds streaked across the blue sky. Humphrey grimaces at the sight of it. Perhaps it will rain, perhaps it will not – if it does, it will come too late to delay his departure. He closes his eyes and then reopens them, looking down at Henry. He’s taken the boy out early to feed the ducks one last time and he suspects Henry has been slow to finish off the bread to put off the leave-taking as long as he can. But the ducks are demanding enough that he can’t delay too much.

When the last duck has been patted and the last crumb of bread eaten, Humphrey bends down and lifts the boy up, setting him on his hip. He kisses Henry’s forehead.

‘It will be alright,’ he says. ‘You’ll soon be too busy to miss me.’

‘Don’t,’ Henry moans, burrowing his face into Humphrey’s chest. ‘Don’t.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘If I could stay, I would.’

He hopes, really, that Henry continues to be well-behaved because if he starts screaming and demanding Humphrey must stay, he doesn’t think he will be strong enough to be the responsible adult and leave after all. Or maybe he really hopes Henry does throw an impressive tantrum so he is forced to stay after all. He does not want to leave.

But Henry snuffles and leans into Humphrey hard, squeezing him tight. He says nothing else, objects to nothing further.

*

He kisses Catherine’s hand and wishes her well, promises to remember her and Henry in his prayers. Then Humphrey bends down and gives Henry one last hug, wrapping him up tightly. Henry is quietly crying and clings to him tightly, refusing to relinquish his grip.

‘Henry,’ Catherine says gently. ‘Let your uncle go.’

Henry lets go, stumbling back to rub at his wet eyes. Humphrey tries to smile gently at him and knows if he hugs Henry again, he himself will not let go and will not leave.

‘Easter,’ Humphrey says. ‘I will come back to celebrate Easter with you. It will be properly spring by then. And I will write. In the meantime, play with your kittens and be happy, Henry. The time will go by fast.’

Henry nods, reaching for Catherine’s hand. Humphrey walks swiftly to his horse. He cannot delay any further, he must go. He takes hold of the pommel and pulls himself smoothly onto the saddle, steadying the horse with a light pat to its neck before taking the reins.

He gives the order to move off, watches as the first of his escort begin the journey and then wheels his horse around to look one more time upon the figures of Catherine and Henry, standing at the entrance to the castle.

He raises his hand and goes.

*

In Greenwich, Humphrey’s house is warm, its walls hung with bright tapestries and in the hall, there is music playing and the babble of laughter and conversation. He does not want to be part of it yet, does not want to preside over meals as the great lord, and yet it lightens his heart to hear it. Tomorrow, he thinks, he will speak to his marshal about having Arthur and Antigone brought to stay with him – at least until Jacqueline returns or he leaves for Hainault.

But for now, he is contented with a hot bath and something small to eat and to hear the sounds of other people’s joy. Soon, he will preside over a feast in hope he will forget his grief and guilt.

Later, the room is dark and Eleanor is sleeping with her head on his chest, their legs tangled together. Her hair spills over her pale shoulders and he strokes it gently, not wanting her to stir. At least, not _yet._ He is happy here, though he grieved badly in Canterbury. In five months, he will make the pilgrimage to Harry’s tomb at Westminster and feel again the deeper cuts of grief. In October, he will be a year older than Harry ever was.

But in the meanwhile, he will be happy and perform his duties without complaint. He will write to Henry and stay with him for Easter – perhaps Humphrey can even find a way to take Eleanor with him. She has been good with his natural children, the rare times they had met, perhaps she will be good with Henry as well.

It is raining. It has been raining for most the evening, a steady rain that is not particularly heavy. He remembers the warmth that greeted him at Leeds Castle, the great, sunny days, and the quiet joy he found there, telling his young nephew stories and feeding birds with him. He thinks he felt something there, something precious and curative that made him settle in his heart and bones – the frail hope of spring.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don’t feed ducks (or swans) bread as it’s basically junk food for them. Humphrey and Henry do in this fic because they lived in the fifteenth century and were totally unaware of this fact. Also, they’re fictional characters feeding fictional ducks. No ducks were harmed in the writing of this fic. 
> 
> Thank you to skeleton-richard and harry-leroy on tumblr for their suggestions of what colour Henry’s kittens should be. The kitten described as “tortoiseshell-and-white” is a calico kitten – my research indicated that “calico” was an American term and “tortoiseshell-and-white” was more accurate for Humphrey and Henry.
> 
>  _Historical Notes_  
>  Some sections owe a fair bit to John Russell’s _Book of Nurture_ and to angevin2 for linking me to a modern English translation. Russell was Humphrey's Marshal of the Household. 
> 
> Humphrey’s children: Alison Weir’s _Britain's Royal Families: The Complete Genealogy_ states that Jacqueline had a stillborn child in 1424. I haven’t been able to find any additional sources on this. so I’m a little uncertain about how accurate such a claim is. 
> 
> Eleanor Cobham has long been suggested to be the mother of Arthur and Antigone, but imo it’s unlikely and I've followed speculation by Humphrey’s biographer J. Davis that they were born to a French mother before Henry V died.
> 
> Harry’s _Sanctus_ : you can listen to one version [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-8UF6VwOXnE). There is a fair deal of debate whether Henry IV or Henry V is the composer, I've read convincing arguments for both. I originally wrote this with the idea of it being Henry IV's composition but went back and changed it to Henry V because I decided I liked the depressing little headcanon I had thought up for its composition and I wanted to weave it into a linked story as Henry V's composition.
> 
> Humphrey and Jacqueline: I have a lot of thoughts about their relationship which are too many to go into. The most relevant one is that the stress and failures of the Hainault campaign lead to the fracture and collapse of their relationship. It seems that until his marriage was actually annulled in 1428, he was still considering (if with no great energy or ambition) returning and/or sending troops to Hainault.
> 
> Humphrey’s illness in Hainault: one of the strange factors of the Hainault campaign is that Humphrey - who had successfully commanded well-disciplined sieges during Henry V’s campaigns in France - seemed incapable or unwilling to control his men in Hainault. I’ve tried to explain this with the reference to him being ill in Hainault, but it is speculation.


End file.
